


Oh Sweetie, You Didn't

by aeroport_art



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Baking, Crack, Fluff, Gen, Humor, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-14
Updated: 2007-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeroport_art/pseuds/aeroport_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has a secret hobby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh Sweetie, You Didn't

Sam walks in through the front door. Enters their studio, the same place they’ve been at since Sam’s sophomore year of high school, and hastily throws his backpack onto the threadbare couch.

He’s about to stalk inside when he immediately notices that something’s off.

He carefully sniffs the air.

_Brownies…_

A warbling, metallic crash splits the air and colorful curses follow its wake.

“Shit shit _shit_ —“

 _The fuck?_ Sam heads over to the tiny kitchen area, a 6’ x 6’ space walled off with a flimsy divider. “Dean?”

Silence suddenly interrupts the older brother’s swearing and Sam blinks confusedly before peeking his head around the divider.

Dean looks back at him with wide eyes and Sam is fleetingly reminded of _doing 80 on the freeway and fuck, did that thing leave a dent_. He uncomfortably shifts his gaze from his brother’s stricken one and instead focuses on the spatula in Dean’s icing-covered hand.

The spatula has a wooden handle and a rubber tip and—wait— _spatula?_

“Dean?”

“This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Tell me what this is supposed to look like?” Sam is genuinely confused. His brother Dean is standing in the kitchen looking guiltier than when he’d been caught with his pants down in Phoenix and there are glops of chocolate goo every. Fucking. Where. 

But really, there’s probably a silly explanation for the chaos in the kitchen. The neighbor’s hellish children again? Flyby demon?

Dean eyes the open canister of chocolate icing, trails his gaze to a still-hot pan and then to the turned over one on the floor, oozing its confectionary guts onto the tile. “Um.”

Sam waits expectantly.

“What the fuck are you doing home so early, anyway?” Dean all but throws the spatula into the kitchen sink.

“Oh yeah, that reminds me,” Sam replies, anxiety snapping back to the forefront of his mind. “Dad’s gonna be pissed when he gets home so—“

The thin door suddenly bangs open and the brothers can hear it quivering on its shoddy hinges.

“ _SAMMY—_ ”

“Aw fuck,” Sam says. “I really can’t do this right now. Tell him— tell him I’m at the library or something, k?” The long-limbed boy shoves the kitchenette window open and lances out of it.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief.

\-----

Sam forgets all about the brownies. What with the piling assignments he’d missed during the last Winchester “vacation”, Dad’s stubborn glares whenever he was actually home, and the furtive folder of college applications hiding in his closet, Sam could really care less about mysterious brownie explosions.

So he forgets about it. Until two weeks later:

“Hey, where’d these come from?” Sam puts his dishes away and glances at a plate of dense fudge on the counter, neatly stacked in a little ziggurat and shrinked in Clear-Wrap.

“Ah, Missouri dropped them off,” Dean says distractedly as he fiddles with the universal remote that a grateful, no-longer-haunted salesman had given them.

“Missouri?” Sam repeats. Not that this would be out of the ordinary; the maternal woman often baked something for the Winchester boys, so whenever they were in the area Sam would often find her desserts waiting for him when he got home. However. “We’re in Oregon, Dean.”

“Well she mailed it then or something, just shut up and eat them,” Dean grouses from the living room, obviously still pre-occupied with the remote controller.

“Mailed?” Sam furrows his brow. Then puts two and two together, sort of. “Hey, does this have anything to do with that other day—“

“Just eat them already!!”

Dean sounds more pissed than he should be, and that’s what tips Sam off. _Something strange afoot is_ , he thinks, then mentally berates himself for having such a geeky thought because really, Dean’s taunts are completely unfounded.

In any case, Sam shrugs. Peels back the clingy plastic and snags the biggest piece, pushing it into his mouth with his index finger. _Mmm, caramel._

\-----

This didn’t mean Sam had forgotten about the brownies. Or the really tasty fudge. On the contrary, Sam starts to come home earlier, ditching the library in favor of doing his homework behind the bush in the backyard, the azalea one that happens to have a stealthy view of their kitchen window (okay fine, he was staking out his brother).

This goes on for another two, three weeks. It’s starting to get really cold outside and kind of ridiculous when one ordinary Tuesday, it happens.

Sam is chewing on his pock-marked pencil and zoning out on the textured stucco of the wall, when he sees Dean inside the studio. The usual goes on—Dean throwing barely-rinsed dishes into the machine, Dean rooting through the fridge, Dean eating ice cream from the pint ( _hey_ , that was _his_ )— when it happens.

Dean licks the spoon clean and sets the ice cream container back into the freezer. He stops for a moment, as if thinking, then glances at the clock above the window (at which Sam ducks behind the bush, crowding his textbooks closer to his legs and feeling kind of retarded). And then. _And then_.

Sam peeks in again and starts to get giddy when Dean opens a cabinet and reaches into the far corner, grasping until he comes out with a red and white box in his hand. He has to keep himself from making triumphant noises when Dean pulls out various baking utensils from under the sink. He finds himself nearly apoplectic when Dean throws a smock over his front (an apron, sweet Mother of Jesus, an _apron_ ) and begins, _he knew it_ , begins _baking_.

 _I am Jack’s really fucking thrilled little brother_. Before he notices that that doesn’t make any sense, Sam reels at possibilities that this prime morsel of information offers him. Oh, the _possibilities_.

\-----

Only, Sam kind of fumbles the ball. His grandiose plans of brotherly blackmail and public embarrassment go out the door a week later.

Sam knows it’s going to happen again soon when he digs up the cookie batter from behind the vegetables in the fridge. So the next day he comes home from school extra early so as not to miss his chance.

Plans, plans, plans, meticulously and gleefully perused plans bounce around Sam’s mind as he sprints home from school that day. He gets to the front door, unlocks it as quietly as possible, and glides inside.

Sam noiselessly peers around the kitchen divider and sees the back of his brother, clad in a worn black T-shirt and the tell-tale apron knot ( _bow_ , he cheers) gracing the base of his curved spine.

Dean turns a little bit and suddenly, like a vacuum opening, Sam can’t recall which plan he had decided on because Dean’s eyelashes are _really fucking long_ and kind of shiny against the sunlight streaming through the window, and Dean’s eating the cookie batter out of the mixing bowl as he smushes round patties onto the greased foil.

Sam swallows. He watches Dean leisurely lick his fingers clean before opening the pre-heated oven and setting the pan inside. He closes the oven door with a muted thump, then turns all the way around and freezes.

Sam can’t remember for shit what he was supposed to do. But there’s a smear of melted chocolate chip on Dean’s forehead that he can’t stop staring at.

“I’m not. This isn’t. I lost a bet at work,” Dean finally stammers. Sam recalls Dean last Sunday when he’d gunned down a flesh-eating monster with a cocky grin and smartass one-liner, and almost laughs aloud at how Dean looks positively _petrified_ right now.

“Dean,” Sam says between badly-stifled laughs. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Fuck you,” Dean says. He storms out the front door. Later Sam waits too long to take the cookies out and burns them to black-edged crisps.

\-----

“I liked the caramel,” Sam says one day, over TV dinners. John shoots a look between his two sons, who apparently have picked up this conversation from before. Dean glares at his little brother and stabs at his peas.

But the next day there’s a plate of caramel-drizzled brownies waiting on the counter, and Dean is nowhere to be seen. There’s a Post-It pad next to them so Sam plucks it up.

It says “I hate you” in a hard scrawl that leaves an imprint on the next four pages, but that doesn’t stop the wide grin that threatens to split Sam’s face in two.


End file.
